Love is made by two people, in different kinds of solitude. It can be in a crowd, but in an oblivious crowd.

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There are strange flowers of reason to match each error of the senses.

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Yes, I read. I have that absurd habit. I like beautiful poems, moving poetry, and all the beyond of that poetry. I am extraordinarily sensitive to those poor, marvelous words left in our dark night by a few men I never knew.

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I have no friends, there are only people I love.

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Language was not given to man: he seized it.

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Photography intervenes in a very strange way. It makes the streets, gates, squares of the city into illustrations of a trashy novel, draws off the banal obviousness of this ancient architecture to inject it with the most pristine intensity.

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It sometimes happens that pleasure blows anywhere it damn well chooses.

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Most people have never known solitude. But there are a few of the other kind who can go back to their rooms anywhere and close the door on the whole world, and feel that they need never emerge.

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There are strange flowers of reason to match each error of the senses. Admirable gardens of absurd beliefs, forebodings, obsessions and frenzies. Unknown, ever-changing gods take shape there.

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Of all possible sexual perversions, religion is the only one to have ever been scientifically systematized. Louis Aragon

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